


creature comforts

by wyverning



Series: kinktober 2020 [5]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Banter, Blood, Blowjobs, Butcher!Neil, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Implications, Gunplay, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Snark, casual mentions of murder, handjobs, mafia!andreil, this is pretty filthy and dark, violence as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: It’s the deadliest game of cat and mouse that Neil has ever played.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: kinktober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946149
Comments: 10
Kudos: 205





	creature comforts

**Author's Note:**

> day 7: **gunplay** | public sex | feet/hand kink | thighfucking  
> day 8: tentacles | loss of virginity | leash/collar | **multiple orgasms**
> 
> how many days can i get away with doubling up on prompts? stay tuned to find out! please do not doxx me about the inner workings/universe set-up of this fic, because i have no idea either

It’s the deadliest game of cat and mouse that Neil has ever played.

He strafes to the right, barely dodging the gunshot that _pings_ off the metal scaffolding he’s weaving in and out of. Though it’s certainly not the first time Neil’s run from someone who wants him dead, there’s a thrill running through him that has his blood pumping in a different way as he dodges the bullets aimed at him.

Maybe it’s that he knows _exactly_ what punishment awaits him if he fails.

Ducking around a corner, Neil pauses to catch his breath. He’s in flawless shape, so it’s saying a lot that even through the adrenaline, his lungs are screaming for more air. He checks his own bullets while he still has cover: only three left after the impromptu shootout that had happened after he’d neutralized his target.

Well, shit. Three’s hardly enough to put up a fight. He has his knives, and he’s damn good with them, but fighting in close quarters right now isn’t ideal. 

Footsteps approach his makeshift hiding place, heavy and obvious as they crunch over broken glass. Sharply, clearly, Neil hears, “Don’t tell me you’ve given up on running already.”

Neil inhales and holds the breath in his lungs for a moment before letting it hiss out between his teeth. In the next instant, he whirls out from around the corner, taking aim at the presence stalking him and firing off his final three rounds even as he bolts across the warehouse floor.

He doesn’t wait to see if they hit. There’s no grunt of impact, no cry of pain, so it’s a safe bet that Neil’s out of ammo and hasn't done jack shit to eliminate the threat tailing him. Great. A quick re-assessment of his surroundings reveals that the door outside is about a hundred feet away, and he books it without thinking too hard about how close his assailant must be: there's no time to risk it. The pounding of feet, no longer making any attempt toward stealth, rings out loudly in the echoing building of the warehouse, and Neil nearly thinks he's made it out.

Then, an outreached hand snags his arm and tugs him backward with enough force that he feels his shoulder being wrenched uncomfortably from its socket. Not enough to dislocate, but enough to send a message.

“Fuck,” he spits, and spins on his heel to see what he already knows: the barrel of a gun.

The blond behind the gun — Andrew Minyard, one of the Raven’s cronies — hums. His grip around the gun is comfortable, well-practiced, and Neil knows he’s lost this one. He could do some damage on his way out if it comes to that, considering the various concealed knives on his body, but he’s not sure he could take on the sheer precision and upper-hand that Andrew has right now.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Neil says, like he’s not about to die.

Andrew stares at him, eyes as blank as the black hole of his gun’s barrel. “Rare to catch the Butcher out on a job,” he says as he bears down on Neil. 

Neil tries to run, one final time. He’s got enough speed that _maybe_ he could avoid taking a directly fatal wound and get to his car before he bleeds out, but it’s a last-ditch effort. Andrew proves to him how stupid he is a heartbeat later, when he kicks out at Neil’s knees and sends him sprawling out on the concrete floor.

This time, he doesn’t bother with distance. The pressure of his gun against Neil’s temple is a cold, heavy presence. 

Neil raises his lip in a snarl. “Is your opinion of me really so poor that you think I’d believe myself to be above a bit of dirty work?”

“Bold of you to assume I think of you at all.” With his free hand, the one not holding a gun to Neil’s fucking head, finger on the trigger like he’s seriously considering it, he waves it around. “Your reputation _is_ changing, though, I suppose.” It’s not _Neil’s_ reputation that needs rehabilitating, he thinks vehemently. He’s not his father.

“Whatever they’ll give you for me,” Neil says, holding that impassive, hazel gaze. “I’ll double it.”

Andrew clicks his tongue and pulls the gun away. There’s no time for relief, though, because in the next instant, he brings it down hard against the side of Neil’s face.

"You're not really in a position to bargain."

The pain waylays him for a moment, but Neil’s used to the brutal flare of agony by now, and he doesn’t dignify the action with anything beyond spitting the blood welling up in his mouth onto the ground. “Great, fine, rough me up first. I’m sure that’ll make Riko happy.”

“You run your mouth a lot, Wesninski,” Andrew says. He drags the barrel of the gun down the length of Neil’s jawline, where a bruise is already starting to blossom. “What’ll it take to shut you up?”

“You would’ve killed me by now if you really wanted that,” Neil responds. He flashes a dark, animalistic smile up at Andrew. “So what is it you really hope to get from this?”

“Thought I made it pretty clear just now,” Andrew says. “Shut the fuck up.” And then he taps the gun against Neil’s cheekbone, just the once, before shoving the muzzle of it into Neil’s mouth. He tastes metal, blood, and heat: the gun’s still hot from the rounds Andrew had shot at him, and Neil can’t help but moan around the intrusion.

It always starts like this.

Andrew’s straddling Neil, his knees pinning Neil to the ground on either side. The hot rush of anticipation that’s been pumping through him since he first saw a flash of that tell-tale blond hair feels like sweet fucking vindication right about now, but that doesn’t mean Neil’s about to make this easy for either of them.

With one hand on the gun, Andrew doesn’t have quite the double-handed grip he’d need to keep Neil pinned, and Neil bucks his hips up, knocking Andrew’s balance off-kilter. It’s a game of speed after that, and Neil smacks the gun away before flipping onto his belly and crawling desperately toward where it’s spun out on the floor.

Andrew growls something dark and heated before _dragging_ Neil back toward him, a hand clamped around Neil’s ankle, and Neil makes a keening noise in response before kicking out. His kicks don’t land, but they do jostle Andrew’s position enough that he manages to free himself, and then he’s scrambling onto his knees and going for the gun again.

They both know exactly how many knives are on each other, right now, but they still don’t withdraw them. It’s an unspoken rule.

The world whirls around Neil as Andrew spins him back onto his back, and it’s a full-on brawl from that point. He manages to land one solid punch to Andrew’s face, and another to his gut, but the struggle beyond that is ruthless and nearly-feral and absolutely unfair. When they finally separate, the gun is long-lost underneath a shipping crate and Neil’s shirt is torn in several different places as they both pant for breath.

“Did you fucking bite me,” Andrew says, hissing as he pokes at a ring of teeth marks on his upper arm.

“I can do it again,” Neil offers with a grin, sure he’s got blood on his teeth — though it’s anybody’s guess as to whose it belongs to.

“You really would be better off dead,” Andrew says, and Neil barks a laugh before agreeing wholeheartedly.

This time, when they lunge for each other, there are no weapons involved. It’s just the two of them, caught up in this vicious, unforgiving world of violence, and it’s impossible to separate the way they operate from the clash of lust they feel for one another.

Neil’s a little shit when he kisses, all teeth and fingernails scraping up whatever bared skin he can reach, and Andrew’s like an electrical fire: unpredictable, ferocious, and all-consuming. He loses himself in the jaw-rattling click of teeth and the way Andrew’s tongue licks into his mouth like it’s staking a fucking claim.

“Andrew,” Neil gasps when he finally breaks away to suck in a breath like he’s dying. Oxygen always seems so unimportant in times like these, when they finally catch each other and get a few moments to drop all facades and just _be_ with one another. His lip is split open from the force of their kisses, a steady stream of blood dripping down his face.

Shit. They’ll have to clean that up.

Andrew must have the same thought, because he leans forward and very deliberately licks the trail from Neil’s chin until their lips meet again.

_Fuck._

Neil arches his neck in pleasure-pain and says, “Need you to touch me.” He’s so hard in his trousers he feels like he’s going to fucking burst, and Andrew obliges, though not out of any sense of kindness or obligation.

Instead, he grinds the heel of his hand against Neil’s clothed dick, hard enough that it nearly _aches,_ and says, “You’re needy today.”

“I just killed seven men while knowing you were there _watching,_ ” Neil bitches. “Of course I’m fucking needy. Touch me.”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific there,” Andrew says, withdrawing his hand in favor of clamping it around Neil’s hip. He thumbs over the jagged scar of Neil’s hipbone, before adding, pointedly, “I’m touching you right now.”

“I’m going to kill you in about two minutes,” Neil says, grabbing at Andrew’s hand, which slips away and out of his reach. “Right across the jugular. Maybe carve a word or two in, so everyone knows who left you here to die.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Andrew says, his lips twitching into something that could, under extreme duress, be comparable to a smirk. “On your back for me.”

Neil rolls his eyes at the petty grab for control, but he’s desperate enough to comply. He lies back, propping himself up onto his elbows, and drags his gaze from Andrew’s mouth to his dick with purpose.

Andrew prowls forward, all pretenses dropped. He unbuttons and unzips Neil’s pants without much fanfare, dipping a hand beneath Neil’s boxers to withdraw his dick from its confines.

They’ve done this a million times, and it never gets old. Andrew’s mouth is a tight, wet heat that envelops the head of Neil’s cock and provides no mercy, sucking him down with the barest scrape of teeth that always sends a shiver wracking Neil’s frame. It’s a test of will to refrain from fucking into Andrew’s mouth like a feral beast, but the payoff is always worth it.

“You suck cock like you were born for it,” Neil says. He’s glad his hands are on the ground, palms pressing against the cool concrete, because even though this is always ruthless and brutal and exactly what they need, he knows that Andrew will draw a clear line if he needs to, and touching him while he pleasures Neil tends to be one of them.

Andrew withdraws from Neil’s cock, a long line of spit spilling out of his mouth. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, Andrew looking positively debauched with his lips swollen and red, and Neil pants out a pathetic, “More.”

He nearly bites his tongue off when Andrew ducks back down and swallows him, in one smooth motion, down to the root. Neil’s not perfect: it doesn’t take him much longer with _that_ kind of pressure surrounding him, and he spills down Andrew’s throat with a bitten-off moan.

“Ah, shit,” Neil says, thunking his head against the floor. He’s a bruised, bloody mess, and has never felt better.

“You’re not done yet,” Andrew says, tone so matter-of-fact that Neil feels his overspent dick twitch despite the fact that there’s no way he’s ready to come again.

“Is that so,” Neil says disbelievingly. In response, Andrew swats at Neil’s ass, a loud crack of skin-on-skin impact echoing throughout the warehouse. Neil rolls over, feeling much more obedient after his first orgasm, and can’t even think to protest when Andrew audibly spits onto his hand and starts working a finger in and out of Neil’s ass.

They don’t have lube, so Neil knows _intellectually_ that they won’t go much further than this, but his body doesn’t seem to get the memo: it seems like hardly any time before he’s throbbing hard again, rocking back onto Andrew’s hand as he fucks into him.

Andrew works Neil to a second orgasm, one hand wrapped firmly around his cock and the other shoving two fingers up his ass, and Neil’s never felt better in his entire fucking life.

He comes so hard he whites out, a strangled groan bursting out of his chest like a heart attack, and Andrew looks smug when Neil turns blurry eyes to him.

“Let me say thank you?” Neil asks, eager to reciprocate after coming in such a mind-shattering way. Andrew eyes him for a moment before nodding.

Trading one of Andrew’s orgasms for two of Neil’s doesn’t seem fair, though Neil knows this is a touchy subject. Andrew, for all his bravado and assholery, is a fairly generous lover and doesn’t always _want_ what his partners have to offer.

So if one is all he’s going to get, he wants to make it _good._

Neil crawls forward, tugging Andrew closer until he can kiss a line down Andrew’s jaw and neck. He takes his time, even as he slides down Andrew’s abdomen and into his pants so he can take him in hand.

Andrew inhales sharply, and Neil pauses, but then he says, voice gravelly with arousal, “It’s fine. Do something useful and get me off.”

Well, that’s certainly something Neil can do. He’s careful not to overstep, a complete counterpoint to how they even got to this point, but Neil brings Andrew off with careful precision, touching and twisting his hand and brushing fingers against Andrew’s balls in the way he _knows_ Andrew likes.

When it’s over, they both stare at the wires and cables of the warehouse ceiling until their heartbeats slow. With the adrenaline and endorphins fading, Neil starts to clock the various pains and aches of his body, and knows that Andrew’s left his mark for far longer than this brief encounter. 

It gives him something to look forward to, these next few days.

From beside him, Andrew stands and retrieves his gun. Neil notices belatedly that he’d dropped a backpack off just a few feet away -- before their altercation -- and he watches as Andrew rifles through it before tossing a clear plastic bottle at Neil.

Neil catches it with ease before uncapping it and taking a delicate sniff: bleach. How considerate. He dumps some liquid on the smears of blood now riddling the warehouse floor before hauling himself to his feet and checking for any spots he may have missed.

Satisfied that evidence of them has been destroyed, Neil turns toward Andrew. The shorter man snags a finger into the collar of his shirt and tugs him in close.

“Stay out of trouble, rabbit,” Andrew says, brushing his thumb over Neil’s bottom lip in what could possibly be mistaken as affection. “No one’s allowed to kill you but me.”

Neil waits for Andrew to take a few steps before he slips a knife out from the holster strapped to his thigh and aims it, with perfect precision, at the support beam just a hair’s breadth away from Andrew’s ear. “Fuck off,” he says, which they both know really means, _Until next time._

**Author's Note:**

> please come shitpost with me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/wyverning)


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